


Royal Complications

by TheSoundOfSilence



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Romance, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:32:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3688926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoundOfSilence/pseuds/TheSoundOfSilence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cheesy teenlock AU where John turns out to be a royal of some faraway country (The Princess Diaries-style). They're in a fancy private school and John's royalty kind of complicates their relationship</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in ages, so I'm sorry if the english is bad. I'm kind of a beginner here  
> Also, I haven't really planned ahead that much so we'll see where the hell this goes

"Fucking fuck."  
John Watson muttered the curse under his breath as he ducked behind the desk. He could hear the sound of those expensive Italian shoes clicking against the polished wooden floor, and from a small opening he could glimpse his long shadow as he pranced around the room. He heard the click of a lighter followed by the distinct smell of cigarette smoke. The smoker exhaled audibly and leaned out through the open window, all while John sat uncomfortably crouched beneath the massive oaken desk. He tried to breathe as quietly as possible, and also tried not to think about the embarrassment that would ensue if he was discovered. Not only discovered, but discovered by _him_. The smoker exhaled once again, tapping the tip of his shining shoe against the floor. It was quiet for a long time, the only sound coming from the fancy shoes, like the ticking of a clock. John's legs had started to ache from the awkward position, and he quietly wondered how long it would take for that goddamn cigarette to burn out.  
"I know you're there." His deep voice pierced the silence. John abruptly stopped breathing and his heart probably skipped a beat. He didn't move, hoping that the owner of the voice hadn't been talking to _him_.  
"I know you're there", the voice repeated. "Underneath that desk." John hit his head on the desk as he clumsily attempted to scramble to his feet. Flushed and in pain, he faced his discoverer. Tall, dark haired and gorgeous as ever.

Sherlock Holmes.

***

Blue eyes observed John Watson coolly as he struggled to get his racing heart under control.  
"How did..." he heard himself say. He would probably be better off quiet, but the words slipped anyway. Sherlock looked out the window with disinterest, taking another drag of his cigarette.  
"You forgot to lock the door, simple as that. Mr. Edlund would never leave it unlocked, so someone had to have picked the lock open and snuck inside. Under the desk is the only place to hide."  
"Oh", John said foolishly. He was turning redder by the second. "You won't tell, right?"  
It seemed like Sherlock hadn't heard his question, because he remained silent for a painful amount of time, paying undivided attention to his cigarette. Just as John was about to awkwardly clear his throat, Sherlock replied.  
"Of course I won't. I wouldn't want Mr. Edlund to ask me why I was in his office, especially if he could smell the smoke."  
John felt the relief flush through his body and he almost fell over as his legs got weak.  
"Tha-thank you", he stuttered.  
"No problem. So what did you get?"  
John looked at him quizzically.  
"What?"  
"I assume you snuck in here see your grade in biology. So what did you get?"  
John was still dumbfounded by Sherlock's mere presence, and that he seemed to be two steps ahead of him didn't make it any better.  
"I didn't do it for me. Well, partly for me, but mostly for my buddy Mike. He was really torn up after our last exam, and I just wanted to be able to assure him that it went alright. Or alternatively help him a lot more before the next one." John spoke quickly and was out of breath by the time he finished. Sherlock turned his gaze towards him and gave him an amused smile. Or was it a mocking smirk? He couldn't tell.  
"Good reason", he commented, before taking another drag of the cigarette.  
"Why are you here then?” John couldn't stop himself from asking. "Why don't you just smoke in the yard?"  
"Oh, I like to challenge myself. Smoking becomes a bit more exciting if you do it in dangerous locations. Besides, Mr. Edlund won't be coming back for at least ten minutes. He's in the cellar having sex with Miss Norton."  
John's jaw almost dropped open, but he managed to stop himself before he started to look like a bloody birdhouse.  
"Oh... Okay", was all he could say. "I'll be leaving..." He made for the door, but he could sense Sherlock's gaze on his back. It gave him goosebumps.  
"John" He stopped and turned. Sherlock was looking straight into his eyes with a look he couldn't have interpreted even if his life had depended on it.  
"See you around", he said.  
"Yeah", John replied with a shy smile. "See you around."


	2. Second Meeting - in the presence of a fountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second meeting. A slightly longer chapter this time!

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes both attended the Alderman School for Boys. It was a big, fancy, private boarding school with frighteningly high tuition and a long tradition of dangerous pranks on the first-years. Many would describe the building as Hogwarts-like, since the roof was enriched with splendid towers and a deep moat surrounded the campus, but it lacked the magical atmosphere that a school for witches and wizards would have had. Instead, the school radiated an atmosphere of rich upper class and spoiled brats. John hadn’t had an upper class upbringing like the rest of the boys, but had grown up in a home where luxuries were rather scarce. He lived with his mother and younger sister Harry in the suburbs of London, his mother having divorced his father when he was three and Harry hadn’t even been born. It was John’s father who paid for his tuition at Alderton, suggesting that he was a rich, but the bastard had never sent them any money when they had struggled the most. Apparently he lived in some small European country called Brevaria, located somewhere between Austria and Germany, close to Lichtenstein. John had sometimes considered going to Brevaria to meet him for the first time in fourteen years, but his negligence of him and Harry made him spiteful. The only item John had from his father was some old family heirloom, a silver-handled dagger that his mother kept in a locked cabinet at all times. One week when he was twelve, a week with only beans for dinner every day, John had suggested that they sell the dagger to get some extra income, but his mother had refused. For some reason she didn’t seem angry with her ex-husband, she rarely mentioned him, and when she did, she spoke of him as if he was some sort of god.

  
Of course, most of the Alderton boys sensed that John wasn’t actually upper class, which had made him the victim of many dangerous and close to cruel pranks during his first year at the school. Among other things, he had found dog shit in his bed, been thrown into the moat, and discovered a great deal of hair in his lunch sandwich (which had turned out to be pubes). He had been troubled by it at first, but it didn’t affect him much these days. He had a couple of friends who weren’t as stuck up as the rest of them, so life was bearable. Besides, there were new first-graders to terrorise, so John had been forgotten. His best friend was Mike Stamford, an insanely rich but rather stupid son of an Earl, with whom he shared his dorm room. Mike was the person he trusted the most out of all his friends, but he still hadn’t gathered the courage to tell him about his crush on Sherlock. It was just too weird.

  
Ever since his first days at Alderton, during the days of dog shit and stolen homework, John had had eyes for Sherlock Holmes. He was something of a recluse, most commonly found smoking in some corner or covered by books in the library, but John felt a little jolt in his stomach every time he had the fortune to get a glimpse of him. They had never spoken to each other until the day of the desk incident, and John had not even been sure that Sherlock was aware of his existence. Now, though, when Sherlock had even called him by his name, he hoped that things would change.

  
After the awkward first meeting, John returned to his dorm room and slumped down on the bed. The chamber was larger than he had first expected a dorm room to be, but that was probably a perk that came with paying such high tuition. There was one window facing the moat that surrounded the school, framed by curtains in the same emerald green that could be found on the tie of the school uniform. There were two beds, and it was very clear whose bed was whose. John’s side of the room was tidy and his personal belongings were rather few. Mike’s side, on the other hand, was an unorganised mess of clothes, books and sweet-wrappers. Having grown up in a home with servants and butlers, he had never learnt how to keep things clean on his own.

  
Finally safe in his bed, John realised that he had forgotten to actually check the biology grades when he was in Mr. Edlund’s office. The meeting with Sherlock had completely consumed his mind and everything else seemed insignificant. He turned around with a groan, burying his face in the pillow, trying to clear his mind, but all he could see in front of him was Sherlock’s dark curls and those impossible eyes. And as if that was not enough, he started to feel the familiar strain in his pants. Afraid Mike would see, he dove under the duvet with another discontent boyish groan. He did it just in time, because at that very moment Mike entered the room.  
“What are you hiding under there for?” he asked, looking surprised. Then his face showed a flash of fear.  
"Did you get caught? Are you being expelled?"  
"No, no! Or well, yes", John replied in frustration. He didn't really want to speak to Mike about it, but he didn't like lying to him either. He threw the duvet off the upper half of his body.  
"I was caught, but not by Mr. Edlund. It was just another student."  
"Who?"  
John hesitated for a moment, but decided to trust him.  
"Sherlock Holmes."  
"Who? Oh, you mean that odd fella who smokes, like, ten packets a day?"  
"Yeah, that's him", John replied, frowning at Mike's description of Sherlock.  
"Well, is he going to tell on you?" Mike asked, throwing himself on his bed. There was a crunch of crushed sweet-wrappers.  
"No. He's not like that", John answered absently, thoughts wandering back to the meeting again. Mike gave him a strange look, but he didn't notice. He began dreaming of seeing Sherlock again, this time in some calm place, where they could talk to each other, and maybe go even further.

  
That didn't turn out to be the case.

  
*

  
Their second meeting took place at 2am on a Saturday night. John was roaring drunk, vomiting in a bush, when Sherlock happened to pass by. The party was at Sebastian Moran's place, a three story villa with an astonishing number of marble fountains in the yard. Moran was an unpleasant boy who often sneered at John in disgust, but he invited everyone to his parties, and everyone included John. There had been an impressive assortment of liquor in the drawing room, everything from decades old scotch and first class champagne to cheap beer and vodka. With the help of Mike and another friend, Charlie Walcott, John had downed a couple shots too many. After having drunkenly made out with a girl called Theresa, he rushed outside and threw up in a bush. When he turned around, miserably wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he suddenly stoop face to face with Sherlock Holmes. Many centimeters taller than John, he looked down at him with a raised eyebrow.  
"We always seem to meet when you're in an awkward position, don't we?" he said with a hint of amusement. It was evident that he was completely sober. John, on the other hand, was swaying where he stood.  
"I'm not awkward", John managed. "This is not awkwa-", he attempted to lean against a nearby fountain, but he missed by several inches and fell sideways down on the ground. Too drunk to be embarrassed, he remained on the ground, giggling. Sherlock towered over him for a moment, then grabbed his arms and hoisted him off the ground.  
"Did you see that?" John giggled, struggling to regain balance.  
"I fell down like... like..."  
"A drunken boy", Sherlock filled in calmly.  
"If you don't sober up you are bound to fall down some hole and break your leg", he continued. Without a moment of hesitation, he cupped his hand in the water of the fountain and splashed it in John's face. He jolted backwards with a terrified yelp.  
"That was... not... nice! Not nice!" he protested and stumbled around, instinctively aiming a punch at Sherlock, who gracefully stepped out of reach.  
"Being nice is overrated. Good night, John".

  
Sherlock left just as quickly as he had appeared. As John was left standing by the fountain, nauseous and wet, he felt his head clear a little. He suddenly got the feeling that he would feel very bad about this incident the next morning. He looked up at the night sky, alive with a thousand stars, and said the only word his drunken mind could produce:  
“Fuck.”


	3. Third meeting - In the presence of a messy floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hangover and a slightly more real conversation.

John did feel very bad the next morning. He awoke tangled in his sheets, smelling of booze and a girl's perfume, with headache from hell. As he made his way to the shower room in the corridor he stumbled over something soft and fell face-forward down on the carpet. The fall reminded him of something from last night, but he couldn't remember what. Still half asleep he got up on his feet and stepped over the thing that had made him fall, which turned out to be Mike, still in last night's clothes, snoring like a hog. John was the only person in the shower room, so he chose the cleanest shower and let the lukewarm water rain blissfully on his forehead. He had started to remember bits and pieces from the previous night, and could now recall that he had kissed some girl with pink hair and cherry lipstick. He could also remember getting wet in the face. As he wondered how much he actually drank the night before, Sherlock's face suddenly flickered through his mind. His body went rigid and he dropped the bottle of shampoo that he was holding. Had he met Sherlock last night? John stressfully finished washing himself and stepped out of the shower, heart racing as more memories resurfaced. By the time he was back in his room, most of the meeting with Sherlock had come back to him. He felt the churning feeling of shame and embarrassment in his stomach so strongly that he almost threw up again. He paced the room for a while, sweet-wrappers crunching under his feet every now and then, as he replayed the events of the previous night over and over again in his mind. He was not only ashamed of how he'd acted around Sherlock, he'd even tried to _punch_ him, but he also regretted having kissed Theresa, who he now remembered to be Moran's cousin. He had left her abruptly and never come back, acting just like one of those inconsiderate assholes that he despised. John stopped pacing and took a deep breath. Things could be fixed. And he would fix them. He grimaced, then left his dorm room and began his quest for Sherlock's.  
  
*  
  
John spent ten minutes confusedly wandering around the corridors before he realised he would have to ask for Sherlock's room at the reception. There were no nametags on the doors, only numbers, so finding the right room on his own would involve a lot of awkward knocking. The receptionist, a middle aged woman with curly hair and bright red glasses, gave him a very strange look when he asked for Sherlock.   
"Sherlock Holmes? Really?" she asked in wonder. John began to wonder if he had _ever_ had any visitors.   
"Yeah, it's just a homework thing", he lied.  
"Whatever you say, darling", the receptionist replied and flicked through some papers on her desk. She still looked suspicious, as if she wondered if it was a part of some prank.   
"Stay away from that boy, dear, he'll give you nothing but trouble", she told him firmly.  
"I'll be careful?" John replied hesitantly, starting to feel uncomfortable. There was a long pause.  
"He's in room 221", she said at last.   
"Thank you, miss", he answered and hurried away, almost crashing into two newly awoken first graders coming out of their room. It took him nearly five minutes to locate the room; the school was enormous and John still hadn't learnt how to navigate through the endless corridors and twisted staircases. As a matter of fact, he had gotten lost and missed dinner only three weeks earlier. When he finally found the door he raised his hand to knock, but hesitated. He was feeling a mix of embarrassment, anxiety and excitement that made him physically sick, though it was hard to tell if that wasn’t just an effect of the hangover. His fist moved closer to the door, but he could still not make himself knock. He stood there for nearly three minutes, debating with himself, before he managed a light knock. He stepped backwards, afraid that the door would smack him in the face.

He waited. The door opened.

*

Sherlock opened the door slowly and suspiciously, but didn't seem surprised to see that it was John who had knocked. His dark curls were a mess and he looked rather sleepy, which made John nervous that he had woken him.  
"Hello. Can I come in?" he said and tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. Sherlock looked at him for a moment, almost like he was _scanning_ him, before he pushed the door wide open.   
"Sure."   
John entered the room and was taken aback by what was inside. It was an absolutely chaotic mess of books, clothes, stray papers and a ton of completely random things that did not belong in the room of a sixteen year old boy. Among other strange things, there was a lawnmower, a microwave, a human skull and several jars with slimy contents that he couldn't make out what they were. It would be a great place to play "the floor is lava", because he couldn't see a single spot of bare floor. It occurred to him that he had either came to the room of a genius, or to the room of an insane serial killer. He knew that Sherlock was smart, but he didn't know what _kind_ of smart.   
"Sorry about the mess", he heard Sherlock say. John looked at him, and to his surprise he could tell that Sherlock had dropped his expressionless facade and seemed genuinely distressed about the state of his room.   
"I never have any visitors, anyway."  
"That's fine", John assured him."What does your roommate think?"  
"I don't have a roommate", he replied matter-of-factly. To John, this was very strange. It was absolutely impossible, in his experience, to get to live without a roommate. He had tried himself, since he hadn't gotten along with Mike very well the first couple of weeks. He supposed that Sherlock had been more persuasive.   
  
"Anyhow..." John started, bringing up the subject that he had come for.  
"I'm so sorry about last night. I'm really ashamed, I acted like an idiot."  
"Apology accepted. You were drunk", Sherlock replied, seemingly untouched.   
"That's not an excuse", John protested. Sherlock gave him an interested look.   
"That's true"  
"I'm really sorry for hitting you, or well, trying to hit you", John continued. Sherlock gave him a tiny smile.   
"It's okay." John got caught in those amazing eyes of his. They seemed to say so much at once; there was an alertness and intelligence beyond compare, but he could also sense some sort of heartbreaking sadness that was only visible when he thought that John wasn't looking at him. Combined with his reclusive behaviour, it told John a lot about the sort of upbringing he must have had. Feeling a surge of new bravery, John decided to do something else than keep apologising.   
"And thank you", he said with a genuine smile.   
"For what?" Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow.   
"For helping me off the ground after my idiotic fall and then trying to make me sober up."  
John thought he saw Sherlock blush, but he was looking down at the floor, so he wasn't sure.   
"No problem", Sherlock said, and for a moment it seemed as if he wanted to say something more, but then he looked down again. After a few seconds of silence, John finally spoke.   
“I... I better go.”  
“Okay.” Sherlock’s face was a mask again, impossible to read.    
“Um, bye”, John managed, hurrying out of the room.  
“See you around”, Sherlock replied, causing John to stop by the door and turn around.   
“Yeah”, he said, blushing violently. Then he sprinted away, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.


End file.
